The Bastard

by John Jakes

  Yet the silence and isolation of the cellar room, the candle flickering on the ledge, her kisses and caresses and, most of all, the unguessable future, conspired to overcome his reluctance. They tumbled on the pallet. He bared her body, casting the gown and underthings aside. Then he reached up to pinch the candle out between thumb and forefinger, never feeling the heat.

  Anne’s hand touched the buckle at his waist. He helped her. He kissed her face, her eyelids, the gentle, warm valley between her breasts. And knew that all of it was still a pledge of sorts—

  The darkness turned sweltering as she rolled against him, no longer shy but seeking him—with her hands, then her whole body—

  The joining was painful to her; he could tell by the convulsive way she clasped his shoulders. And for him, the end was unsatisfying because it was overly quick, reached just as her flesh began to stir with first reactions. They fell back on the pallet, exhausted, her hair a lavender-scented webbing against his sweated chest. When they separated, she gave a last little cry. Pain or pleasure? He couldn’t be certain.

  “Dammit, Anne, I know I disappointed you—”

  “No. No!”

  “Yes. I was too soon. And I hurt you—”

  “Isn’t—” She still breathed hard. “Isn’t it supposed to be that way the first time? The next time I’ll know how. I’m not at all experienced yet—” Her laugh was embarrassed, yet totally female in its warmth. Her fingers kept moving on him, lovingly tracing the outline of his right hand where it curled around her naked waist to hold her belly. “Oh, if Papa realized his proper Congregationalist daughter had taken a lover—! But then—” She punctuated the teasing with tender kisses of his throat, his chin. “I’ve at least had the good sense to become involved with a man of the right political persuasion.” She lifted the liberty medal, held it a second, then released it and pressed both hands to his cheeks, kissing him with passion.

  They rested a while under two shabby blankets. Presently her exploring hand and wicked, womanly little laugh roused him again. When he took her a second time, she opened herself and clasped him eagerly, without restraint or fear, and responded with a rhythm and ferocity that fully matched his own. The dark of his mind burst alight, lit by a thousand blazing stars, and a thousand more. His body burned, sought—and so did hers.

  Together, faster and steadily faster, they surrendered everything, one to the other. And when the last delicious, shuddering moments came on them both simultaneously—moments of impossible, unbearable straining, of sudden, cascading release, of joyful cries and whispers in the slow-cooling aftermath—there was no need for either to murmur an apology. This time, it had been perfect.

  ii

  Yawning and whispering and holding hands, they walked through the cold December morning to Launder Street. After an almost prim kiss, he promised to call on Sunday. Eyes aglow, she touched his face a final time and slipped inside.

  The memory of her radiance lingered with him as he started back to Dassett Alley, whistling an air in spite of his tiredness. He kicked at a rime of ice in a low place in the street, thrust his chilled hands deep into his pockets and speculated on whether a man ever fully controlled his own destiny. It did not seem so. The encounter with Captain Stark had been an accident. And perhaps Anne Ware might not have given herself if the sword wound hadn’t added an extra measure of sympathy and concern to push her across the emotional brink.

  Striding along in the dawn with the sky turning opalescent, he could reflect that it had been a night of wonders. With significance for the future in many more ways than he could ever hope to enumerate.

  Yet he was oddly content, even smiling as he bent into the northwest wind.

  A decision, Anne had called it. A whole series of them, really. Small, casual ones, progressing from incident to incident—

  His wrath after the abortive fire. Edes handing him the medal. His resulting impulse to join the tea mob.

  The necessity to deal with the grenadier. His unwillingness, at the last moment, to refuse the gift of Anne’s love despite his reservations about a permanent future with her.

  Well, despite her assurances, he was partially bound to her now, just as he was bound to the patriot cause. Neither outcome had been foreseen.

  His breath formed a plume ahead of him. In the stillness, a watchman called the half-hour after five, and a clear day predicted. He accepted the workings of his destiny without regret.

  In fact he slept deeply and blissfully for an hour—until Ben Edes arrived to waken him for the day’s work.

  iii

  Practically at once, Edes inquired about his young assistant’s chipped-off tooth, the bandage wrapped around his head, and the remainder of the gash showing below it.

  Philip had already decided that the fewer who shared the secret, the better. He said he’d broken his tooth and gotten the wound while escaping from a couple of drunken British officers who had watched the tea thrown in the harbor and had been sufficiently angered to chase him and try to vent their feelings. It was the truth, if not all the truth.

  “I outran them,” Philip said. “I fell hard, right on my face, then scraped my head dodging around a corner in the dark, that’s all.”

  Edes nodded and accepted the explanation without further question. He left the shop about an hour later. Philip used the opportunity to bring his bloodied shirt up from the Cellar, rip it and burn it in the little wood stove that warmed Edes’ office.

  iv

  Anne Ware started coming to the shop with her father’s copy again. Occasional speculative looks from Mr. Edes told Philip that perhaps their intimacy was obvious.

  Anne always behaved in a ladylike way, of course. But there were moments when she let her hand rest against his as she showed off Patriot’s latest indignant phrase. Edes didn’t miss the byplay. But he made no comment.

  Philip and Anne had no opportunity to be alone in the days that followed. When he called at the house in Launder Street on the Sabbath, Lawyer Ware was usually present, or at least the cook, Daisy O’Brian. The weather was too cold for finding a place to make love out-of-doors. And even though Philip’s key would have made use of the cellar room quite easy, Anne didn’t want to risk being seen entering the Dassett Alley establishment in daylight, on a Sunday afternoon. As she herself had said, she still had the good sense to respect certain proprieties.

  At the same time, her cheeks had taken on a richer color, almost as though the winter could not fade her summer’s tan. They both derived a great deal of private pleasure from sharing the secret.

  “I think Daisy suspects,” Anne whispered merrily, an hour before the new year of 1774 was to be rung in from the steeples of the town. “Have you noticed the way she stares at us?”

  Philip turned from the window. Outside, a fluffy white snow drifted down, softening the glow of the lamps in other houses along Launder Street. In the Ware fireplace, beech logs crackled and flamed. Anne’s father, who had proposed a toast to the coming year only five minutes ago, now snored like a somnolent frog, his skinny hands folded on his paunch. He kept slipping further and further down in his chair.

  Philip had dressed for the evening in his one good broadcloth. He grinned at Anne and replied, “No, I haven’t noticed your cook or her staring. All I care to see is you.” He picked up his glass of claret and toasted her.

  Anne walked to his side, took the goblet from his fingers, sipped from it, then leaned back against him. Philip glanced at the sleeping lawyer. Ware appeared ready to slide off his chair. He let out a snort but his eyes stayed closed. Philip slipped his arm around Anne’s waist.

  As they watched the snow fall, Anne went on, “Poor Daisy. She craves a husband in the worst way. Her widower father keeps a farm out beyond Concord. She thought the chances of matrimony were better in town. She’s told me she’d even take up with a Tory, if only one would look in her direction. I never realized the true sadness of that kind of longing before we—well, you understand. Oh, Philip! How fine it feels
to be close to another person. I’d like for Daisy to make a match—”

  She set the goblet on a taboret, turned and laid her hands on either side of his neck. Lawyer Ware snored and bubbled his lips. Anne looked into Philip’s eyes.

  “I’d like her to be as happy as I am. Even though matrimony is not part of the bargain.” She kissed him gently on the lips.

  Warmed by the wine, he replied, “Yes, but no one said it was out of the question, either.”

  “I know. But never think you’re bound in any way by what happened. I’ve said it before—the months ahead are too clouded. Too unsure. Let’s take only as much as we can, while we can.”

  She darted one more glance at the slumbering lawyer. Then, eyes sparkling, she asked:

  “Have you ever seen the little barn that stands behind the house?”

  Keeping a straight face, he said, “Why, I don’t believe so, Mistress Ware.”

  “The former owner put it up. We never use it, because Papa’s not the sort to fuss with milking a cow to save a penny. There’s a big hay pile in the barn. If you wished, we could welcome the New Year in a more private fashion.”

  “Anne Ware,” he laughed, “you are indeed a scandalous woman.”

  “No,” she said, “one in love.” And, taking his hand, she led him to the parlor door.

  They paused at the entrance to the Kitchen to look in on Daisy. The buxom Irish girl had dozed off after drinking the claret offered by her employer.

  “A whole household sleeping!” Anne exclaimed in a whisper. “A fair omen for celebrating seventy-four, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would, Mistress Ware. Lead on!”

  They stole across the back porch and through the powdery whiteness with an almost conspiratorial delight. On the roof of the tiny barn the snow had accumulated till it looked thick as a breadloaf. Inside, the hay proved warm and comfortable.

  Tonight their lovemaking had less of the urgency of the first time. They shared little private amusements with a tenderness and frankness that made Philip ask himself whether marriage to this bright, eager girl might not be as endlessly satisfying as the moment they were sharing now. Alicia Parkhurst seemed an alien figure of the past, less than real.

  For her part, Anne now had absolutely no hesitancy about showing physical passion. Though they made love with half their clothes still in place, and laughed about it, she still reached a full, joyous climax just when he did, a moment or two after the bells of Boston began to peal the arrival of the first day of January.

  Shortly afterward, however, Philip was again reminded of the tougher, more practical side of her nature. As she smoothed her skirt, she said:

  “Has Mr. Knox called to see you yet?”

  “The owner of the book-store? No, does he intend to?”

  “The other day I told him you might be a candidate for—oh, but it might be better if I let him explain in person.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Henry will make that clear.”

  “Now see here, woman. You’re teasing me again.”

  “Only a little.” She gave him a long, level look.

  “When you accepted that medal from Ben Edes, you did make one commitment, Philip.”

  v

  The fat Knox arrived at Dassett Alley within a matter of days. He was bundled in a snow-dusted greatcoat, his curly hair unpowdered and his manner businesslike.

  “Mr. Kent, are you aware that throughout the town and some areas of the countryside, militia companies are being formed?”

  “Militia—? Yes, we’ve printed stories about it in the paper. Why do you ask?”

  Knox stepped closer. “Because, sir, I am recruiting for the Boston Grenadier Company, Captain Pierce commanding. I am one of his lieutenants. Should there be trouble as a result of the tea dispute, we mean to be prepared.”

  All at once Philip studied the jowly young man with new interest. Knox was obviously well educated, polished. His corpulent figure had a softness that suggested anything except a fighting man. Yet his eyes were keen and determined. He continued:

  “We need men for the ranks. Six feet tall if we can find ’em—less than that if we can’t. I understand from—certain mutual friends that what you might lack in stature, you make up for in spirit and devotion to our common concern. We drill once a week, and the pay’s insignificant. But I feel confident Ben Edes would grant you the time off. If you don’t know how to load and shoot a musket, we’ll teach you.”

  Philip realized that Anne’s assessment of Knox had to be true. While pretending purposeless amiability toward the British officers who turned his store into an unofficial salon, he was learning their tactical and strategic secrets. Now he was putting them to use. Philip answered:

  “I fired a Brown Bess a few times. But that was several years ago.”

  “The knack will come quickly if it was easy for you the first time.” Knox lifted his silk-wrapped hand. “As you may have noticed, handling a musket is impossible for me, thanks to a hunting accident. I suppose,” he added with a grin, “that’s the reason they turned me into an officer. Oh, I should tell you before you decide that each member of the company is responsible for securing his own musket. They’re not easily come by unless you’re a rural man who keeps one pegged over the hearth. But we are not overly curious about how a man acquires a gun—so long as he gets one. Until be does, he drills with a stick.”

  Philip stifled a laugh. “A stick—!” Instantly, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Be assured, sir, we are not playing children’s games. You can and will learn the proper order for loading and firing the weapon, even though you do not have powder and shot or the musket itself. But then when you have them—” Knox’s expression showed resolve. “—you will be ready to use them.”

  A shiver of apprehension chased down Philip’s back. The step from orderly mobs destroying tea consignments to organization of military units was a long and significant one. Frowning, he asked the bookseller:

  “Do you honestly think that we’ll come to open hostilities?”

  “Who knows what we can expect when Hutchinson’s reports of the tea affair reach England—as they’ve surely done by now? Our basic position is preparedness. For any eventuality. You were recommended as one who would fit into our unit. If the recommendation was in error—” His unfinished sentence and challenging stare left no doubt about what his opinion would be if Philip responded negatively. The storm winds were blowing in earnest now, he thought. Buffeting him along—

  “All right, Mr. Knox. I’ll join. Provided Mr. Edes agrees.”

  Knox clapped him on the shoulder. “You can be certain of it! Once you’ve taken care of the formality of obtaining his permission, come ’round to the store and we’ll arrange the papers.”

  vi

  A few days later, Philip found a couple of spare hours for personal business. He visited Knox at the Book-Store to sign the required forms. Then he hurried toward the North End, where he hoped to see Mr. Revere.

  A January thaw had set in. Midmorning sunshine gilded windowpanes and glittered the ice melting on rooftops as he turned into North Square. From one end to the other, the Square teemed with citizens and tradespeople moving among flimsy stalls put up at sunrise. Several days a week, North Square served as one of Boston’s three chief marketplaces.

  Philip pushed by single- and two-horse carts unloading vegetables or firewood fresh from the country, thrust his way around bargainers buying and selling firkins of country butter, baskets of fresh-baked gingerbread, gabbling turkeys. The shoppers were mostly towns-women with baskets on their arms. They haggled cheerfully with the farmers or their smiling but wary-eyed agents; some of these last, Philip noted, were black men. The noise of the market was loud but pleasant. And the aromas were a banquet: oysters and pickled pork, mackerel and rye meal, hams and haunches of venison.

  Revere’s small, peak-roofed house fronted on the square. Philip was about to descend side steps to the shop entrance wh
en he noticed a commotion a few doors down. He shielded his eyes against the sun, saw a small but rough-looking crowd—men, chiefly—gesturing and scowling at a second-floor window. He had no notion of the reason.

  He watched a few moments longer, then went on. It was too fresh and sunny a day for such displays of bad temper, whatever the cause.

  A bell over the door rang to announce his entrance. From an adjoining room, he heard Revere’s voice:

  “Right with you—just a moment—”

  Philip was content to wait, bedazzled by the profusion of goods jammed on the shelves, counters, even the floor of the establishment. Clock faces hung in rows. And branding irons and sword hilts. Sunlight slanting through the street-level windows flashed from the blades in a case of surgeon’s instruments.

  And he had never seen so much silver in so many different shapes and sizes. Baby rattles and teaspoons, shoe buckles and chocolate pots, creamers and standing cups. The sun struck starry highlights from the products of Revere’s metalworking skill.

  The craftsman himself appeared a moment later, wiping his hands on his leather apron.

  “Mr. Kent! Good day. What brings you to this part of town?”

  “I’m in need of your services, Mr. Revere.”

  “Well, I’ve a diversity of those to offer! What’s your choice?” His blunt-fingered hands ranged over a display. “A baptismal basin? Ah, but nothing’s been settled formally with you and Mistress Ware, has it?” The smith’s grin confirmed what Philip already suspected. He and Anne were the subject of amused gossip among the group that gathered at Edes and Gill.

  Revere picked up a glittering length of silver links. “A chain for your pet squirrel, then? Or how about a whistle? An excellent silver whistle—” He blew a piercing blast.

  Laughing, Philip held up a hand. “I’m calling on Mr. Revere the dentist.” He opened his mouth, pointed. “I broke this the night we sank the tea.”